i am sitting
in a cafe,
chatting
– i think-
i am smiling
– i think-
i am trying
– i think-
to remember…
when,
crack,
some part of my mandible has split and a piece of my face
and a piece of my face has chipped
and slipped off into my soup
before i realize it’s gone
immediately
my head bows to look
for what I have lost but,
somehow, before my hands
grasp at my image in horror
though not before their clenching,
i stop myself
i open my hands,
i do not unclench,
i lift my head, without straightening my neck,
without straightening my neck,
and i continue to try, to remember how…
to try, to remember how…
my ear has slipped,
hanging now at the crux
between neck and skull; it is a little distracting,
it is a little distracting,
i forget.
i scratch around the area,
hoping to trip or trick
a synapse into reconnecting,
i get lucky.
with a blink i can hear again
with everything, well,
my ear anyway,
in its’ right place.
i check their face
to see if i have missed
anything,
(everything);
it is smiling at me
so it must be fine,
i didn’t miss, much,
i can go back
to remembering how to…
i have no control,
i stretch to meet
the openness their face indicates
of their heart
and my nose splatters
into the lemonade i reached
for to get away from the widening
gap of their lips;
there is no splash
but i worry i have
now ruined the pleasantry
as it has become quite difficult for me to breathe
for me to breathe.
i am no longer a beginner, my luck doesn’t last
my luck doesn’t last
and i see i have lost the light in their eyes, somehow,
the light in their eyes, somehow,
somehow,
damn; you can’t win them all, they say, no one’s ever
you can’t win them all, they say, no one’s ever
they say;
no one’s ever said, at least within my hearing, if we can lose them all
at least within my hearing, if we can lose them all
if we can lose them all.
the advances, the giggles, the long gazes like headlights
the giggles, the long gazes like headlights
the long gazes like headlights
illuminating a path worn by the soft passage of sheep, not
by the soft passage of sheep, not
not by me.
not for me.
i am sharp at heart
in tooth and claw,
i bite into my sandwich
i worry it will leak out,
through the void
filled barrier and splatter
onto the tablecloth,
perfect.
i already lost the light,
i’d at least like to
try
to keep my dignity
as my face is beyond
immediate repair
it seems the only things that won’t fall
are the tears,
those cling stubbornly
like rock-climbers on the curves
of my lashes, maybe
they need eyeballs to fall
properly but those disintegrated
as soon as we sat down,
their dust the salt in my meal.
check please,
just in case there’s something
still hanging on;
ah,
cheekbones,
good old cheekbones,
well the right one anyway,
better right than left i always say, when
when left is not an option; still got it.
i put it all together again, as much as
as much as i can find in the pockets of my mind
in the pockets of my mind
and huddled in the dusty corners of
of my heart.
once i am back
to where i go for sleeping,
there is time for gentleness there,
if not actual healing,
i may take stock
of what’s been lost and perhaps
and perhaps trace
the departure routes.
i rarely find them again, the pieces that fall,
the pieces that fall,
i wish i did, sometimes;
sometimes;
i feel so naked without
without them and being naturally lean
and being naturally lean
i chill easily,
the drafts don’t help and
and i’ve never seen
a treatment for draftiness of the skull
of the skull that didn’t involve death
death
so instead i sit near the window
i use as a mirror reflecting, wandering
after where those pieces have gone.
i find my nose in a puddle
i cried the night
the wood threatened
to make us mud
and stick us back
into the earth
early
by the banks
of the river
that blasted bit of mandible
had fallen in the nook
of his parent’s couch while
they were in greece and while
he assaulted me
somewhere between
a bottle of 151, my independence, and
my independence, and
and my all-time favorite book
all-time
favorite book
book.
these tears are like my torso pressed
are like my torso
pressed against the seat back of the bus refusing
the seat
back of the bus
refusing to follow gravity in a slow arc towards
gravity in a slow arc towards
towards the earth-
i rub my nose and mandible
and mandible
into them.
they crust
on my eyes
like scabs,
such ugly,
effective,
housekeepers.
i use their
capacity to carry
a charge to send
an s-o-s,
shame of survival,
message.
it tips out through my
through my fingers
as they try
to hold t(his) hand
which they let slip because for all their
because for all their
for all their
remarkable dexterity
opposable thumbs
are terrible
at multi-tasking.